


In Your Dreams (The Fly on the Wall Remix)

by aphrodite_mine



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/F, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4494189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>But those nights, I think I see the real Cordelia. The one who misses her mom, but also hates her. Maybe I relate to that a little.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Dreams (The Fly on the Wall Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariestess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In Your Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1592684) by [A Magiluna Stormwriter (ariestess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/pseuds/A%20Magiluna%20Stormwriter). 



Things are quieter now that everything's settled out and Cordelia's Supreme. Course, quiet doesn't seem to matter to her, or to my unconscious. Unconsciousnesses are like that, I guess. Gotta keep rifling through everything that's gone on, and try to make sense of it. Seems like we oughta be able to cast something, make the dreams stop, or least quiet down a little, but nah. Only thing that reliably works is alcohol, and I don't much use that myself. Course, that's no judgement on her, on Cordelia, sometimes you just need a fucking drink. I don't much dream of dead girls. Men with faces of monsters, monsters with faces of women, yeah. Plenty. Then again, maybe I owe myself a little drink once in awhile. I've earned it, maybe. Scratch that, I've more than fucking earned it.

Cordelia's the seer, though, or some part of her still is, and maybe that makes it harder on her. Couldn't tell ya. But I can tell what she's dreaming about, just by circles under her eyes, shake in her hands, her appearance in my doorway in the middle of the night. "Stay with me, Queenie?" she says all quivery, and I know it's Fiona. Cordelia can't or won't tell me the details, but it shakes her. There's a tremble in her lip that makes me feel for her. Sad, I think. We've lost so much. 

Mostly, she pulls off Supreme. Little bit holier than thou, full of knowledge and experience to impart to the younger generation. But those nights, I think I see the real Cordelia. The one who misses her mom, but also hates her. Maybe I relate to that a little. And even though she's Supreme, it reminds me that we're pretty damn close to the same. Pretty damn close to equal. And that, if nothing else, feels good.

Unlike Cordelia, my bad dreams aren't followed up with comfort and the presence of better ghosts. She'll tell me about Myrtle, tucking her into bed, or mixing up a tea. She'll tell me about Nan, who whispers in her ear and points her in the right direction. Lucky. Wish she'd visit me, tell me when to wake up, tell me its all okay. I miss Nan. Missing is such a strange feeling, like a hole you know used to be filled up but now all there is is nothing. A big gaping pile of nothing.

I've learned how to stop my screams so I don't scare the new girls. No benefit in that. I don't call for Cordelia when the worst of the dreams hit me. They're my burden, my experience. Despite my powers, I've never been about spreading around my own pain. I'm the one who's got to figure out how to soothe my memories. Don't suppose many people have advice for how to remind yourself you're whole when your dream's doing its worst to tell you you're split down the middle, ripped apart. 

On the worst nights, I wake tangled up in my own sheets. Once they were around my neck, like I was begging, just desperate for anything to make it stop. The light comes in under my bedroom door just enough to make shadows, to make the panic not die down as quick. I go to the bathroom, wash my face, and go back to bed. What else is there to do?

It's a wonder I'm as okay as I am. 

Part of the reason, I think, is that when I least expect it, when the nightmares are the worst and I'm waking up shaking and covered in sweat, tears running down my face, something beautiful will come to my subconscious. 

It isn't my powers for once, or at least, it isn't any version of them I've been acquainted with before. I'm a voodoo doll, what happens to me happens to others, not the other way around. But maybe, just maybe, there's a reason for it.

The dreams are strange, if I break them down. It's got nothing to do with me, no connection that I can fathom. I think sometimes I'm spying on something forbidden, but the feeling of love that washes over me is worth any sort of sin. How do I even explain it, the feeling? It's like… like I'm watching a movie, or I'm a ghost in the room. A fly on the wall. I can feel everything, hear everything, see and smell all of it. 

I'll wake up humming Stevie Nicks like the old swamp witch. Yeah, she's managed to come back to life again, somehow, in my dreams. She's a peaceful presence. Hard to mean ill will when a fucking hippie is twirling around wearing shawls and shit. She makes me smile. I don't do that much, otherwise. It's not just Misty Day who graces my subconscious with her presence. Sometimes, Cordelia is there, too. This isn't Supreme Cordelia, or even upset over bad dreams Cordelia. This is somebody I never got the chance to know.

Not that I'd want to, not really. I'm not gay. Hell, I'm not much of anything these days, but point being, it's not a sex thing. I don't get off on it, on watching them together. I mean, it isn't even… if I were gonna imagine something to really make me wet it sure as hell wouldn't be Misty Day and Cordelia Foxx, cuddling in the greenhouse or kissing by the lake. 

There's something pure about them. Something brighter and warmer than anything else, even being awake. And whatever it means, or wherever it comes from, it feels good. Better than anything else my mind has to draw on. Better than… real life. I get filled up with this… feeling. It's gotta be love. It's like a balloon, maybe. Like all the _missing_ gets filled up, and I can't tell the hole's there anymore either. 

That's why I don't do too much digging to figure out why, or how. It's just nice to know that I can feel whole. Even if I've gotta wake up, after.


End file.
